Astor Place Vintage: A Novel

AMANDA

MY APPOINTMENT WAS in an apartment building called Stewart House—a white brick high-rise on Tenth Street, near Broadway, built in the sixties. I’d walked past it many times but had never been inside. The corner balconies, circular driveway, and chandeliered lobby made my tenement, just a few blocks away, seem downright prehistoric, though my rent was modern enough.

Fifteen floors up, at the end of a long hallway decorated with framed impressionist posters from museum exhibitions, a barefoot man wearing jeans and a T-shirt stood at the door. I guessed he was in his early forties, clinging to his twenties. Or maybe I was projecting. It happened to be my birthday, and I wasn’t too thrilled about turning thirty-nine.

I’m here to see Jane Kelly, I said. She called about some clothes.

Come on in.

He gave me a look-over as I stepped inside. I couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw. Whatever. I found him attractive enough but not my type. Black hair, tan, a beard. I didn’t go for men with facial hair—too scratchy.

He led me into a tidy living room furnished with Danish teak furniture, an amoeba-shaped coffee table, and a curved-back chair that might have been an original Eames. Furniture dealers would be salivating, but I wasn’t there for the tables and chairs. In the corner, a tiny woman with sparse wispy gray hair sat hunched over a desk, staring into a computer screen.

Grandma? Someone here about clothes.

Funny to hear a grown man calling someone Grandma. On the other hand, with a grandparent as old as this lady, he could be a member of AARP. Did he live with her? Maybe he was a good guy taking care of his aging relative—or maybe he was just a freeloader.

The secondhand shop? she asked, still staring at the screen.

I preferred vintage clothing store but let it go. Amanda Rosenbloom from Astor Place Vintage. You asked me to come by?

He was going to call the Salvation Army, she said while scrolling down the front page of NYTimes.com. Can you believe it?

Grandson gave me a thumbs-up and left the room. The old woman didn’t turn around. I peered out the set of triple windows. They faced north, so no direct sunlight warmed the room, but the high floor offered a spectacular view of Union Square, the Flatiron, the Empire State Building . . .

Nice view, I said. She still didn’t turn around. I stepped forward and cleared my throat. She clicked onto the obituary page. Maybe her hearing was bad. I stepped closer and spoke louder. Would you like to show me what you have?

I don’t see how a business like that can make it. She clicked on a headline about the death of Mr. Wizard from a TV science show back in the fifties. How many old clothes can a person sell in a day?

I let silence answer that one. She finally turned and peered at me through her glasses. Then she rose, her freckled, bony hand gripping the top of the chair for support. So frail. Too skinny. Not long for this world. I couldn’t help but think of skeletons.

I’m getting rid of it all, she said, reaching for a metal cane leaning against the desk. Cancer. Nothing they can do. So it goes.

I’m sorry. Unfortunately, in my line of work, part of the territory is relieving clients of their possessions when the end is near.

Not a tragedy. Not at my age. Ninety-eight, she announced with pride. Though I was hoping, she added bitterly, to make it to a hundred.

Mrs. Kelly’s point of view certainly helped put my own age problem into perspective.

I’ll show you what I have, she said. Some are designer dresses. A Rudi Gernreich. You know how rare those are? The Salvation Army!

I’ll need to sort through and see what has resale value. I set my hobo bag on the coffee table. Then we can agree on a price. Taking baby steps to match her pace, I followed Mrs. Kelly out of the room. I noticed this building is named Stewart House. Is that for the old department store?

The A. T. Stewart department store stood right here. Of course, by the time I was born, they were out of business and Wanamaker’s had moved in.

But Wanamaker’s was across the street. I was sure of this. The subway station on Astor Place had an exit that used to go directly into the store. Now it led into a Kmart.

They added that building later, she said. This was the original.

Really. I was miffed at myself for getting that wrong. I didn’t realize there were two buildings. I was a compulsive Googler, and my favorite search subject was Manhattan history, especially accounts of what used to be where.

They called it the Iron Palace. Burned down in the fifties. A beautiful landmark gone, just like that.

I pictured the flames shooting into the sky right where we stood. And now hardly anyone knows Wanamaker’s existed, much less A. T. Stewart.

Why should they? She slid the two folding doors of her closet apart. A wide expanse of clothing hung neatly on wood hangers. Set aside anything that might fetch a good price. Then we’ll talk. She hobbled back to the living room.

An odd aspect of my work: vintage clothing is a euphemism for clothing worn by people who are probably dead. Unlike other antiques, clothing had actually draped on a human being—clung to the skin, absorbed the sweat, and warmed the body. I tended to forget those ghostly associations while looking at potential merchandise; the excitement of the hunt took over as I searched through piece after piece, hoping to discover something precious and extraordinary.

Jane Kelly had been a snazzy dresser in her time. It was hard to imagine her shrunken frame filling out the assortment of fashions on the rack. I set aside some casual forties and fifties day dresses that would sell. A great collection of sixties cocktail dresses suggested that Jane’s income had grown in tandem with an expanding social life.

The Rudi Gernreich was fantastic: a mod floor-length A-line knit dress in mint condition. The upper bodice had a low scoop neck with a tiny checkerboard pattern of black squares on a purple background. From the empire waist to the knee, the same pattern was blown up to larger size. From the knee to the hem was a reverse pattern of purple squares on a black background. Very mod, very op art. Could easily go for five or six hundred dollars.

A sexy hourglass dress looked like it might fit me, and the royal blue would go great with my pale skin and black hair. I decided to give it to myself as a present—assuming Mrs. Kelly and I agreed on a deal. It would be perfect for my birthday dinner. White peep-toe heels, crimson lipstick, and matching nail polish would complete the look.

After going through everything and making my selections, I came up with a number and hoped it would sound high. If she insisted, I’d go up to thirteen hundred for the lot. I took a few stacks of clothing into the living room. Mrs. Kelly sat on the sofa with her eyes closed and her mouth open. Unsure how to rouse her, I proceeded as if she were awake. I’d be willing to pay you a thousand.

Her eyes flicked open. For which piece?

All of it, I said, suppressing a smile.

Are you crazy?

I’m in business. I crossed my arms.

Two thousand, she said.

Twelve hundred, but that’s as high as I can go.

She pulled a sixties shift from the pile. Really cute, with a mod black-and-white flower-power design and an unfortunate stain on the bust that I hoped to get out.

You don’t want this. It used to be my favorite dress. I was at a party laughing at some stupid joke and spilled red wine . . . never forgave myself.

I could take a shot at cleaning it.

If you want to waste your time. She tossed it to me. For eighteen hundred, I’ll throw in the trunk. She nodded toward an old flat-top steamer trunk. It had a few scratches and age wear, but with some olive oil and lemon juice, it would shine up just fine. Still, I had no space to put that clunky thing, and nobody used them anymore.

There’s clothing inside, she said. Things that go back a long time. We’re talking Edwardian. On second thought, nineteen hundred for everything.

Amazing how the urge to bargain could be so strong, even when facing the grave. May I look inside?

Go ahead. She leaned her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes again.

Kneeling on the parquet wood floor, I removed a stack of New Yorker magazines and lifted the top. A whiff of dust shot up my nostrils with the familiar cocktail of mothballs and mold. A removable top shelf was crammed with buttons, lengths of ribbon and lace, white silk gloves, and a faded but darling striped parasol.

The main part of the chest was packed tight. Someone smart, presumably Mrs. Kelly, had stored the clothing inside pillowcases—a good way to protect it. Inside one, I found some white cotton nightgowns. The next one had some petticoats and camisoles. Another held a surprise treasure: a matching fur stole and muff. The plush stole was about a yard long, with a fox head and two feet on one end, the tail and two feet on the other. Black vacant glass eyes stared back at me; small white fangs seemed poised to bite. A label on the stole said C.G. GUNTHER’S SONS FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK. The label made it worth more. I snuggled my hands inside the muff. Something hard pressed against my knuckle.

Strange.

I looked inside. The black satin lining had been torn at the seam and sewn closed with uneven stitches. Had someone hidden something inside? A wad of cash, perhaps?

I sneaked a look at Mrs. Kelly. She snored lightly with her mouth hanging open. Did I dare investigate? I crept silently across the room to retrieve my hobo bag. The big brown leather bag originally belonged to my mother. She bought it back in the seventies on one of our excursions to Altman’s department store. Decades later, I rescued it from the top shelf of her closet. Now the soft and slouchy bag went with me everywhere, and so did the sewing kit I kept inside.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the trunk, I dug out the old Schrafft’s candy tin that held my sewing supplies. I used the seam ripper to remove enough of the stitching so I could pull out the object hidden inside: a black leather-bound book.

Inside the front cover, the name Olive Westcott had been written in neat cursive script. I turned the page and realized it was a journal. Why had it been sewn inside the muff?

A feeling of déjà vu came over me, as if I’d done this before, right here in this room. I shook it off and read the first entry.

September 18, 1907

I’ve had this journal for ages. Father gave it to me when I turned twelve and I never bothered to use it. Now that I’m twenty I finally have something to write about. As of today I’m an official New Yorker! Father is managing the Woolworth’s on 34th Street and we’ve just moved in to an apartment-hotel on the corner of 29th Street and Madison Avenue. It’s awfully grand and up-to-date: long-distance telephone, electricity, hot and cold running water, steam heat, and—luxury of luxuries—daily maid service. I can’t wait for my future to begin!

I wanted to read more. The adventures of a young woman arriving in Manhattan never got old for me. I could ask Mrs. Kelly to let me borrow it, but what if she refused? Did she even know it was there? It would be simpler to just take it and return it later, no harm done.

After checking to make sure Mrs. Kelly was still sleeping, I slipped the journal into my hobo bag—totally impulsive and dishonorable and not like me at all, as if I’d momentarily been possessed.

Turning back to the trunk, I continued to sort through. Everything appeared to have been laundered before being stored and was in good shape; no moisture or creepy-crawlies had compromised the condition. A white lace tea gown might sell; some women liked using those as wedding gowns. Otherwise, hardly any of it would appeal to my customers. The long skirts were heavy and cumbersome. The white puffy shirtwaists did nothing to flatter a woman’s shape. Inside the last pillowcase, I found the prettiest item: a gorgeous green satin dress with a purple sash. I held it up to admire.

That’s in perfect condition, Mrs. Kelly said, almost giving me a heart attack. Her piercing voice gave no clue that she’d been asleep.

Not really, I replied. The material is extremely fragile, and these perspiration stains under the arms will never come out.

You could put that on right now and go to dinner at the Plaza.

If the Plaza wasn’t closed for renovations because it’s being turned into condos.

The world is going downhill fast, she said with a crooked smile. I’m lucky to be getting out now.

I sighed in sympathy—and to prepare her for my verdict. Clothing from before the twenties was more often for display than for wearing. It was almost cruel to traumatize the delicate fabric and trimmings by inserting a body. I’d be nervous letting customers try it on. I don’t generally carry stock this old. As much as I love clothing from this period, I don’t get the sort of customers who would buy it.

I preferred dealing with clothes from the thirties to the sixties, and only pieces I really loved. I had a special attraction to minidresses, go-go boots, and black capris. Funny how styles from your own parents’ day tend to call out with that seductive aura of nostalgia. Fashions that evolved after the sixties never impressed me like clothes from earlier decades could. The seventies were practically ruined by polyester. That material would probably survive along with the cockroaches after the human race got wiped out by global warming or the next ice age, whichever came first.

Just give me two thousand for everything, Mrs. Kelly said, and we’ll call it a day.

We were back at two thousand? No, sorry.

Are you telling me these lovely garments aren’t worth as much even though they’re older?

They’re worth something—sometimes quite a bit. They just don’t move well. Look, here’s what we could do. I’ll take the other clothes for twelve hundred, and I’ll take the things from the trunk on consignment. If they sell, we’ll split it. The trunk itself you can keep. I don’t have room for it.

What’s the split?

Sixty/forty.

Sixty for me?

I smiled. For me. On that, I would not budge.

Fine, take it, she said, as if everything had turned into garbage. I don’t want to see any of it again.

Before I go, I’ll make up an itemized list of the consignment pieces, and I’ll need you to sign my standard agreement on the terms.

Go ahead. She aimed a remote at the television. Do what you need to do.

While she watched The View, I wrote out an inventory of all the Edwardian clothes from the trunk. After that was done, I handed her the list, along with a copy of my agreement and a pen. She put on her glasses and read every word of the agreement before signing it. She didn’t bother to check the list.

I can take a few things with me, I told her, but would it be possible for you to have the rest delivered to my shop?

I’ll have my grandson bring everything else.

That would be great, I said, taking care not to reveal the journal as I opened my hobo bag. I placed the hourglass dress, stained A-line, stole, and muff at the top. When he comes, I’ll give him a check for the rest. Here’s a card with all my contact information.

I know where you are, she said, waving a hand in dismissal.

Okay, then. I started out of the room. Clearly, she wasn’t going to say good-bye, so I added for my own sense of closure, Nice meeting you.

There was no sign of the grandson, so I tried opening the front door, but it was locked. I turned the deadbolt, but the door still didn’t open. The grandson reappeared. I’ll get that.

That’s okay. I’ve got it. I turned the bottom lock, but the door refused to open.

He turned the deadbolt back to its original position. The door opened. There you go.

Thanks, I said, wishing he’d let me do it, though I knew he was just being polite.

Take it easy, he said.

I nodded. You, too.

As I walked down the hallway, past the impressionist posters to the elevator, he shut the door behind me.

OLIVE

ANYTHING INTERESTING IN the news? I asked, spreading a thin layer of butter on my roll.

Not much, my father said from behind the paper. The tone at the stock exchange seems more cheerful. Lots of talk about recovery.

I dabbed a bit of marmalade on top of the butter. We’ve heard that before. Just two weeks earlier, Father and I had moved to Manhattan from Cold Spring, a town about two hours north of the city by train. My favorite part of living in our brand-new apartment-hotel was breakfast delivered every morning on a dumbwaiter. Boiled egg, bread basket, pot of coffee, butter, marmalade, copy of the Sun, and a bud vase with sprigs of fresh flowers; no effort required beyond carrying the tray to your table.

At any rate, Father said, closing the paper, the market closed firm.

Let’s hope it’s a trend.

Don’t you worry, Olive, those bears will be shaken out soon.

Like so many others, he’d lost a chunk of money in the market that past March. I didn’t know exactly how much. Father rarely divulged details about his investments, but I had utter confidence in his expertise. He’d always been perfectly responsible when it came to our finances. As a Woolworth’s manager, he earned about ten thousand dollars a year, more than enough for us to live comfortably, and we had no reason to worry about future prospects. With everyone worried about the economy, it was an excellent time to be in the business of selling cheap goods. The Woolworth empire was doing better than ever.

Do you have any special plans for today? my father asked. Or just taking inventory again?

That’s how he referred to my frequent visits to the department stores. I could spend hours analyzing stock and comparing prices. As a matter of fact, I said in my most efficient-sounding voice, I do have more merchandise to inspect.

You really ought to treat yourself to a new gown for the dinner next month.

That’s very generous, Father dear, but I already have some perfectly lovely dresses.

Frank Woolworth was planning to throw a party in his Fifth Avenue mansion with Father as a guest of honor. It would give him an excellent opportunity to socialize with the New York executives. But Father seemed more eager for me to mingle with any eligible bachelors who might be in attendance. Though I had nothing against the idea of meeting someone who would sweep me off my feet, past experience suggested that I’d remain planted on the ground. I’d never been in love and wondered if any man would inspire such feelings.

Truth be told, I’d never been the inspiration for any boys from Cold Spring to fall in love, either. Perhaps I was too tall—or doomed by an urge to prove myself the more intelligent one instead of flirting pleasantly, as I was supposed to.

I don’t mean to badger, Olive, but you’re such a pretty girl, and it would seem you don’t want anyone to notice.

You only think I’m pretty because I’m your daughter, I said with a pout.

That’s ridiculous. You’re far too modest. And a new wardrobe is the best way to build up confidence. Take some enjoyment in your new status as a young lady in New York.

He couldn’t let go of the idea of my becoming a fashionably decked-out ingenue. I preferred the simplicity of a skirt and waist. Comfort was more important to me than appearance. I didn’t bother with a corset. No point trussing myself up with laces and bones, especially considering my figure, which resembled—or so I’d been told—the proverbial beanpole.

You’re very sweet, I replied, but I don’t need a shopping spree to feel better about myself.

Thank goodness all my customers don’t feel the way you do. In fact, I’d better finish getting dressed, or I’ll be late.

Father hurried off to his bedroom. I poured myself another cup of coffee. Growing up around the Woolworth’s that Father managed had undoubtedly taken some of the thrill out of shopping for me. Over the years, on weekends or after school, I often volunteered to fill in if the store was busy or a girl was out sick. I liked the sense of purpose it gave me and, I suppose, a feeling of superiority over the customers, who seemed so vulnerable as they scoured the aisles for bargains and cheap treasures.

I much preferred the practicality of working in the store to academics. After I graduated from high school, Father convinced me to spend a year at Miss Hall’s, a finishing school in Lenox, Massachusetts, where I suffered through ladylike classes in deportment, art history, and the proper way to set a table. By the end of my stay, I’d learned one lesson particularly well: I had no talent for the domestic arts. I returned home secure in the knowledge that I was far more likely to succeed in managing a business than a household.

Now I wanted to learn more about the mind of a customer. What made an object so desirable that someone couldn’t feel content without it? Why did a purchase lose its allure so quickly after being bought? Did people repeat this ritual compulsively in spite of the short-lived satisfaction—or because of it?

Father returned while buttoning his cuffs. I armed myself at the door with his fedora and coat. I couldn’t help feeling proud of him—fit, trim, and handsome at forty-two, with thick wavy brown hair and a healthy complexion. Though I did so want to please him, I would never manage to conform to his idea of what a young lady ought to be. Indeed, he’d be unhappy to know that I was more intent on taking up a career than finding a husband.

I worry about you spending so much time alone, he said, shrugging on his coat. It’s a shame we don’t have family here anymore. I mean to track down some old friends, to see if they might introduce you to some young people.

So you’ve promised, I said with affection, handing him his hat. He grew up in Greenwich Village but hadn’t kept up with his old acquaintances since moving away over twenty years ago. Please don’t fret about me. You know how thrilled I am to be here.

Perhaps it’s not everything you imagined, he said, peering into the mirror by the door to smooth his mustache.

I’ve barely had a chance to find out.

At any rate, he said, giving me a kiss on the forehead, if I’m not too late tonight, we’ll go someplace nice for dinner.

That sounds grand.

After closing the door, I sat back down and turned to the Female—Help Wanted section. Skimming down the listings, I vacillated between optimism and hopelessness. Father was not completely off the mark about my solitude. Despite the thousands of people surrounding me, I was beginning to feel rather isolated. I didn’t see social engagements as the solution. Once I set my career into motion, that problem would take care of itself.

Unfortunately, the classifieds were proving as daunting as a love life. There were ads for shopgirls among the listings of stenographers, factory workers, and telephone operators, but my sights were set higher than a position behind a counter. I hoped to become a buyer for one of the department stores. From reading Father’s subscription to Dry Goods Weekly, I knew that many store buyers were women, and within professions open to females, they earned the highest salaries. Although I didn’t presume to be qualified to step right into such a job, surely someone would be seeking an assistant. Yet I hadn’t come across one single listing for an assistant buyer since I’d begun the search.

Finally, that morning, my eyes landed on an advertisement that I could almost hear shouting directly at me. Seeking assistant buyer, shirtwaist department, apply Macy’s department store.

I pictured myself meeting with a salesman from Chicago showing me shirtwaists for next season. After we were done, I’d speak with the copywriter about new advertisements for the circular. Then I’d find out if I could go on the next buying trip to Europe.

Of course, I couldn’t do any of that until I snapped out of my dream world and got the darn job. I went to run my bath. As water gushed out of the shiny nickel-plated spout, I thought of our horrible bathroom back in Cold Spring. The ancient tin-lined tub was encased in a wood box that reminded me of a coffin, and the linoleum floor looked dirty no matter how vigorously it was scrubbed. Now I could enjoy soaking in a sparkling clean porcelain tub. The white tile walls gleamed, the water heated almost instantly, and a full-length plate-glass mirror was built in to the door.

Actually, I could’ve done without the mirror. It had always been easy to avoid looking at my body naked, and now I kept catching glimpses of myself. I’d never felt comfortable unclothed and had no memory of anyone seeing me that way, either. Even my doctor had always let me wear a petticoat and camisole if I had to be examined. By the same token, I’d never seen another person naked. If not for museums, I’d have no idea what lurked under a man’s union suit.

While luxuriating in the warm water, I debated over what to wear for my interview and decided on a smart navy blue dress that had a matching bolero jacket trimmed with a white band of lace. Thanks to Miss Hall’s, I knew how to look refined when I needed to. The interviewer would see a tall young lady, handsome if not beautiful, with good taste and breeding.

By the time I finished dressing and was ready to go, my confidence had been replaced by a bad case of nerves. I hastened to my bureau, where I kept a journal hidden inside a muff that used to belong to my mother.

October 2, 1907

I’m finally going to my first interview. Must not doubt myself. Why the deuce wouldn’t they hire me? I’m more than qualified—that shall be obvious. I simply need to stay calm and stop being a ninny.

The elevator took me down to the marble-floored lobby of the Mansfield. The red-haired doorman wished me a good morning. Cab, miss?

No thank you.

I never asked for one, yet he posed the same question every time I stepped outside. Perhaps he disapproved of a young woman walking about the city by herself—or perhaps I imagined his disapproval because I wasn’t used to such freedom. At any rate, it was ridiculous to worry over the doorman’s opinion.

As I passed the Madison Square Garden, banners for the horse show flapped in the wind. I probably should’ve brought an umbrella. Rain clouds blocked every bit of sun. I continued past an imposing church on the corner and remembered that Aunt Ida’s letter still needed a response. She’d asked which church Father and I had decided to attend. My pious aunt, Father’s younger sister, had come to live with us after my mother’s death. I couldn’t admit to Aunt Ida that we hadn’t bothered going to services since moving to the city.

Up ahead, the steel framework of the Metropolitan Tower rose to the sky in its odd, half-built magnificence, set to become the tallest building in the world. The construction site blocked the sidewalk with piles of marble and steel, so I crossed the street and cut through Madison Square Park.

I heard the woman shouting before I saw her. Was she in trouble? Following the voice, I realized someone was making a speech. I found a lady standing up on a rostrum before a small gathering of people. She wore a white tailored suit and a hat with sweeping yellow plumes. Behind her, a yellow banner said: VOTES FOR WOMEN.

I implore you not to silence the voices of your loving wives and mothers!

I looked around at the crowd, nearly all men, and wondered if her words touched them.

Don’t deny your daughters the basic right every citizen of this nation deserves.

One young man standing near me threw an apple core that whizzed past the woman’s head. She ignored it and kept on.

Nothing shall change unless you join the fight! The future is in your hands!

It didn’t seem right that only men could give women the chance to vote. Why should our future be in their hands?

She raised a clenched fist in the air to conclude, Give women the power to vote!

A few in the crowd jeered, but most applauded politely. As everyone dispersed, I continued to Broadway, exhilarated to be living in the middle of everything. Father liked to complain that the city had gone downhill since his boyhood, but I thought our neighborhood was as lovely as any Parisian boulevard. Not that I’d ever been to Paris, but Miss Hall had taken our class to the art gallery in Pittsfield to see the French impressionists. My dear best friend, Daisy, used to rhapsodize over the beauty of those paintings. She had a talent for drawing and longed to become an accomplished artist.

Daisy. If only she could be with me now. We’d been inseparable at Miss Hall’s. There was great symmetry to our friendship: She was short, I was tall; she was creative, I was practical; she had a widowed mother, and I had a widowed father. Both of us fostered ideals about female equality, inspired by writers like Charlotte Perkins Gilman and Harriet Martineau. We’d planned to become independent women together. That would require convincing our parents to let us share an apartment in New York. We’d reject the tyranny of marriage and put all our energy into pursuing careers. She’d become a great artist while I succeeded as a businesswoman.

On the other side of the park, I came to a stop in order to prepare myself for crossing the street. Horns blared, bells rang, and whips cracked at the intersection where Fifth Avenue crisscrossed with Broadway in front of the Flatiron. When a lull in traffic finally came, I stepped off the curb. To my right, taking advantage of the same lull, a rubberneck wagon loaded with sightseers pulled out of its parking space. I sprang back as the driver braked to a stop. The guide sitting up top with the tourists shouted into his megaphone. Go on, now, miss, make it lively! I wasn’t sure if he was being courteous or wanted to see if I’d make it across alive.

Charging into the street, I clamped my hat to my head while dodging a pushcart coming from the left, a delivery truck from the right, and a clump of horse manure down below. After triumphantly reaching the other side, I surged forward with my fellow pedestrians up Broadway. I had to walk quickly to keep up with those around me.

As it turned out, after we graduated from Miss Hall’s, Daisy spent the summer touring Europe with her mother. When summer was almost over, I received an apologetic letter from her telling me that our plan to live in New York would have to be delayed. She had the opportunity to study art in London for a year at the prestigious Royal Academy. I was delighted for her and miserable for myself. That year had already passed, yet Daisy continued to live in London without any more apologies. Our scheme of sharing an apartment in New York had been a nice fantasy while it lasted.

I was fast approaching Thirty-fourth Street. Knowing Father’s Woolworth’s was nearby, I couldn’t help myself from a furtive search for his face in the crowd, even though I knew running into him was highly unlikely. After crossing the